


The Night Patrick Swayze Died, by Xie

by Xie



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-05
Updated: 2010-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-09 22:44:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xie/pseuds/Xie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-series Brian and Michael friendship fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night Patrick Swayze Died, by Xie

Brian only took his eyes off the screen long enough to glance at the caller ID.

"Mikey. I thought you were counting comic books or re-arranging super-hero toys tonight."

"I was. But Brian…"

Brian interrupted before Michael could suggest an alternative to each of them working themselves into an early grave that night. "I'm still at Kinnetik because I have a huge pitch tomorrow, so I can't…"

It was Michael's turn to interrupt. "Brian, did you hear about Patrick Swayze?"

"Hear what? Did he come out? Become a Scientologist? Join the Hair Club for Men?"

"He died."

Brian finally looked up from his computer. "No shit. He died?"

"Yeah."

He thought about it for a minute. "Huh."

"So I thought we should get together tonight and, you know… mourn his passing."

Brian ran his hand over his eyes. "I have this pitch tomorrow…"

"Well, I have comic books to count. But, Brian… it's Patrick Swayze. He made me gay."

Brian looked at the presentation on his computer screen. He thought about a geeky kid with a super-hero fetish getting beaten up in the school cafeteria, who took him home to his fucked up, noisy, crazy-ass family and never asked any unanswerable questions. "I'll be there by 8. I'll bring the pot; you're in charge of beer and junk food."

Brian could tell Michael was smiling even over the phone. "Deal."

One perfectly wrapped pitch emailed to Cynthia and 20 minutes later, Brian headed for the loft to change into his jeans and grab some substances suitable for abuse. When he got out of the Corvette in front of Michael's house, Ben and Hunter were pulling on their jackets just inside the open door.

Brian walked in, hands jammed into the pockets of his leather jacket. "Don't stick around on my account."

Ben gave him a look of equal parts sympathy and amusement. But all he said was, "Enjoy your evening of debauchery, you two."

Brian ignored whatever Hunter mumbled about old men not knowing shit about debauchery, although he was fairly sure he could teach even Hunter a thing or two about the subject. He just dropped his jacket on the hall table and headed for the kitchen.

Michael was standing in the doorway grinning, a box of pizza in one hand and two bottles of beer in the other. "There's fried chicken on the coffee table. And the 'Dirty Dancing' DVD."

Brian nodded approvingly, pulled the pot out of his pocket and followed Michael into the living room.

An hour later, the pizza and chicken – and half of Brian's pot – were gone. Michael was sprawled on the sofa, and Brian was lying on the floor, smoking.

"Patrick Swayze did not make you gay." He blew a contemplative smoke ring. "Debbie did."

Michael sat up. "My mom? No way."

He nodded. "Yes. She's a carrier. Just examine the evidence. Her brother. You. Your father. All gay."

"You."

Brian looked at him. "Fuck. You're right. Me."

Michael lay back down. "If we'd only realized, we could have had her convert all the hot guys in our class."

"Good idea, but a little off, timing-wise."

"Well, if I'd known..." he broke off, and this time he bolted upright. "Oh my god."

Brian looked alarmed. "What?"

"What a fucking incredible Rage storyline. It's a new fucking super-power."

"You mean like a queerifying ray?"

Michael almost bounced in his seat. "Yes. Yes. I can't fucking wait to tell Justin."

Brian smiled smugly. "Debbie didn't make _him_ gay."

"Neither did you," Michael reminded him. "He showed up that way."

"Maybe. But I closed the deal. After me, there was no going back." He sat up, rubbing his chin. "I'm starving." He glanced at the empty pizza box and fried chicken bucket. "It's inexplicable, and yet…"

A few minutes later, they were waiting for microwave brownies to be ready. Michael was frowning. "So Patrick Swayze didn't make me gay."

Brian shook his head, licking cheese doodle dust off his lips. "Nope. It was definitely Deb." He went to the refrigerator and pulled out two more beers. "Too bad she didn't make Patrick Swayze gay."

Michael was staring into the freezer. "Do we want ice cream with the brownies?"

"Do you _have_ ice cream?"

He pulled a carton out of the freezer. "I have a teenaged son. Of course I have ice cream." He looked at Brian sideways. "Didn't you used to buy ice cream for Justin when he… hey!" He thumped Brian energetically on the back. "Do you need the Heimlich maneuver? Because I took this lifesaving course…"

"Shut the fuck up," Brian choked out. "I swallowed wrong."

"Maybe we've had enough beer. And pot."

Brian slung his arm across Michael's shoulders and shook his head. "No, the problem is, we haven't had enough. Patrick Swayze is dead, Michael. I don't think we should stop until we've really done justice to his memory." He burped. "And besides, we can't watch 'Dirty Dancing' without pot. And beer. Can we?"

Michael shook his head as he pulled the brownies out of the microwave and started spooning ice cream on top of them. "No. No, we can't."

"It would be disrespectful of his memory," Brian said, swiping some rapidly-melting ice cream off the hot brownie pan. "And we wouldn't want that."

They settled onto the sofa, brownies between them, beers on the coffee table. Michael picked up the remote control and hit "play."

A few minutes into the movie, Brian started rolling a joint. When he was done he lit it, took a deep drag, and then handed it to Michael without exhaling. He never took his eyes off the screen.

When Ben and Hunter came home, they found both of them asleep on the sofa, Michael slumped over with his head on Brian's arm, Brian's head falling back, a little drool crusting in the corner of his mouth.

Hunter started heading for the stairs. "I'm getting my camera. Brian will pay big for these photos."

Ben grabbed a handful of his jacket as he went past. "Not so fast. Show some respect…"

"For what, his advanced age? He'd rather be blackmailed than hear you say that."

Ben's voice was firm. "For his years of friendship with your dad."

Hunter snorted. "Years and years and years and years and years and…"

"You've made your point. Now go to bed."

Hunter stalked off, and Ben gently shook Michael's shoulder. "You coming to bed, or would you rather sleep it off down here?"

Michael just said something like "Mehgooighddsntt," but Brian opened his eyes. He swiped his arm across his mouth, and blinked several times. Then he glanced down at his arm and jerked it away from Michael's head. "My fucking arm is asleep."

Michael's head bounced against the sofa. "What…" He looked at Ben and tried again. "What…"

Ben smiled. "I was asking if you wanted to come up to bed or stay here."

Brian stood up. Then he sat back down. Or fell, to be accurate. "Go up with your husband," he told Michael. "I was just leaving."

"Yeah, about that," Ben said. "Justin called and told me to confiscate your keys. I took them out of your jacket pocket before I left."

Brian frowned and narrowed his eyes. "Devious. Cunning. Manipulative. I expect those things of Justin, Professor, but I didn't know you had it in you."

Michael let Ben pull him up. "We can call you a cab, or you can sleep it off here. Your call."

Ben added, "Or we can call Justin to come and get you…"

Brian shuddered. "No. He'd lecture me all the way home about drug abuse and hydrogenated fats. But do you actually have cabs out here?"

Michael wrinkled up his brow. "We live in Pittsburgh, Brian. You're the one who moved out to the wilds of…"

Brian waved his hand. "Wherever. Do you or don't you have cab service here?"

"We do," Ben said, trying and failing not to laugh. "Michael, why don't you make him some coffee while I call one?"

Brian was trying to assemble enough brain cells to remember how one drinks coffee when he heard a cell phone ringing. Since he couldn't quite remember how phones worked at the moment, he was glad to discover it was Ben's.

"Hi, Justin." Brian decided there was something too cheerful about the way Ben answered the phone. "Yeah, he's right here. We're waiting for a cab."

The smile on Ben's face was one Brian found particularly irritating, so when Ben handed him the phone, he snapped into it, "Don't worry. Mikey's husband is making sure I don't commit vehicular manslaughter on my way home."

Justin was probably laughing at him under the calm and reasonable way he told Brian that he'd bring him back into town to pick up the car in the morning.

Resolutely dismissing the thought of the breakfast meeting waiting for him on the other side of what would no doubt be a world-class hangover, Brian snapped Ben's cell phone shut and handed it back to him. "How retro. Even Debbie has an iPhone."

Ben shrugged. "Maybe next time. I don't like to throw things out that are working perfectly well, just because something new comes along."

Brian rolled his eyes and he took a steaming coffee cup from Michael. "Of course you don't." He took a sip, and swore. "Christ, Mikey. This is black."

"I thought it would be stronger this way."

"The amount of caffeine doesn't change just because you add sugar and cream," he pointed out. But he drank it.

He was on his second cup when the cab arrived. He was halfway down the path before he realized Ben was walking him out. "I know where the fucking curb is, thanks."

Ben pulled open the cab door and waited while Brian got in. Then he leaned down. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Brian snorted. "I just came to wipe Michael's tears, Professor. Don't worry about me."

Ben stood up. "I'm not worried about you, Brian. But thanks for being there for Michael."

Brian gave the driver his address, then leaned back and closed his eyes. He was planning on keeping them that way until he got home, but they flew open when the driver made a fast U-turn in the middle of the street.

Ben paused on the porch and saw Brian looking. He raised his hand for a second, then ran lightly in the open front door.

When Brian got home, the lights were on in Justin's studio. He was washing brushes, a thick landscape of black ridges and gray planes drying on his worktable.

"Honey, I'm home."

Justin shook water off the bunch of brushes in his hand, and set them on the shelf to dry. "How was the funeral?"

Brian looked at Justin's face. It had a little glow on it, one Brian associated with good sex and whatever rush it was Justin got from finishing a painting he particularly liked. "I prefer to think of it as a celebration of his life."

Justin wrinkled his nose. "That sounds like something Ben would say."

Brian shuddered. "Oh, fuck. I'm never going over there again."

"Right." Justin wrapped his arm around Brian's waist, and steered him to the door. "Until the next time."

Brian shook his head firmly. "No. I'm serious." They started up the stairs, and Brian stopped and kissed Justin for a long minute, then pulled him up the next step. "Next time, Mikey can come here."

"Okay."

Brian let his jacket fall to the ground, then looked at Justin suspiciously. "You're humoring me. I hate it when you do that."

Justin pulled his sweater off over his head. "I only do it when you're drunk and stoned and very slightly maudlin."

"Oh. Well, that's okay, then." Brian yanked him close and sucked his tongue into his mouth. He managed to get both their pants off without breaking the kiss, but he finally had to pull their mouths apart long enough to take off his t-shirt.

A little while later, he was pretty sure Justin had fallen asleep next to him when he said, "He died of cancer."

Justin didn't move, just said, "I know."

"Michael thinks Patrick Swayze made him gay." He shifted so Justin's head dropped on his chest. "You don't really know what Patrick Swayze looked like, do you?"

Justin lifted his head. "I looked him up on the web a long time ago. After Michael told me some weird story about him and the two of you."

Brian snorted. "Ancient history."

Justin put his head back down and closed his eyes. "Your history." He kissed Brian's arm.

There was almost no moon that night, and no light coming in their window. Brian glanced at the clock on their bedside table. It was glowing just enough to tell him he had only three hours and 43 minutes before it would go off.

He felt Justin's leg snaking in between his, and his hair brushing across his arm. Brian shifted a little onto his side, and was asleep before his arm finished pulling Justin tighter against him.


End file.
